


Broken Blade

by TheTrollOfTheBridge



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad Being an Asshole, Amputee Malik Al-Sayf, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Malik Al-Sayf, Emotional Hurt, Family Loss, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hate, How Do I Tag, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, It is, Kadar Al-Sayf Dies, Loss of Limbs, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, POV Malik Al-Sayf, Physical Disability, Physical hurt, Suicidal Thoughts, i know it sounds bad, no actual suicide, no beta we die like Kadar, non-graphic amputation, suicide ideation, twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29021652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTrollOfTheBridge/pseuds/TheTrollOfTheBridge
Summary: How many losses can a man bear before he is broken? And what of a man who hasn't been one in a long time? One who became a weapon to serve the Creed only to be discarded when he couldn't be wielded anymore.
Relationships: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad & Rashid ad-Din Sinan | Al Mualim, Kadar Al-Sayf & Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Kadar Al-Sayf & Malik Al-Sayf, Malik Al-Sayf & Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf & Rashid ad-Din Sinan | Al Mualim
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Broken Blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TonytheWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonytheWriter/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy your read!  
> And feel free to scream at me

He couldn't even clutch at his trembling arm in the hope of keeping it steady. He couldn't use his hand to hide the pain on his face and the shame in his eyes. They said it was to help, they pretended they didn’t want to leave him without defense. Yet, he knew the truth. He saw it clear as day in the cold gleam in Al-Mualim’s eyes. It was a warning.

He failed once and the Grandmaster wouldn’t have him fail another time. He might have brought the artifact back, but it wasn’t enough. A half success was also a half failure, and it wouldn’t do to forget that fact. As if he ever could. 

The pain he still felt in an arm that wasn’t there to be treated was a reminder of the most efficient kind. And the new pain inflicted to his left-hand as well. He knew a lie when he heard one and the words of the Mentor definitely were not the truth. An Assassin missing a limb would never go back in the field. Would never again work towards their goal. Would never again hide in plain sight to strike from the crowd. 

Yet, they said he might get another Hidden Blade. This time on his right arm rather than the left, reminding him once again of his loss. He knew he wouldn’t get a new Blade. It simply wasn’t done. They didn’t cut off his only remaining ring finger for a reason. They cut it off for nothing. 

He knew of his failure. Its cost was branded into his soul by the pain of absence. The absence of his finger, cut as a reminder. The absence of his arm, lost by his own weakness. And worst of all, the absence of his little brother. The brother he always loved and protected, making sure he would never be sent on too hard of a mission. And if he was, then Malik would always be beside him, ready to protect Kadar with his life. 

But it wasn’t his life he lost. It was only his arm. It didn’t compare. He would have sacrificed both, even his legs if needed, if it meant his sibling would have come back to Masyaf by his side. 

And when he thought of Altair, the so-called Eagle of Masyaf, the so-called master assassin supposed to be the best of them all. But the man failed. And he put them all in this situation. He killed Kadar. Maybe not on his blade that was already dyed with the blood of the innocent, going against the first thing every novice got branded into their very soul before they ever picked up a weapon. 

No Kadar’s blood didn’t taint Altair’s steel. Yet it still covered his hands without the man paying attention to it. Couldn’t he see the red on his fingers? Crimson staining his body and sinking deep into his soul. Was he so self-centered that he couldn’t see the betrayal etched on his body? 

Of course, he couldn’t. He was so arrogant. Never glancing twice at someone he deemed inferior. Which meant everyone. Which meant Kadar. Kadar who wasn’t there. Who never would be again. The boy admired Altair. He saw him as a hero. As someone to be worshiped and imitated in the hope of his brilliance spreading to you. 

Malik used to look at the man in the same way once upon a time. But again and again the man proved his disregard for others. And Malik watched him stray from the Order, betraying the Creed left and right. He watched with contempt and disgust. And now with an arm, a finger and most importantly a  _ brother _ missing, these feelings turned to hate and bitterness. 

Altair betrayed the Creed, he compromised the mission and killed Kadar. He crippled Malik and ripped his heart out when he  _ murdered  _ his brother. 

And yet. Malik was the one who couldn’t move, couldn’t get up and kill the Templars who followed him home. No. Not home. Not anymore, and Al-Mualim made sure he understood that fact. If he was able to only get up and pick up his sword he would only get himself killed. He knew that. He welcomed it even. 

If dying stopped the pain and the ache in his chest he would gladly tie the rope and walk to the gallows by himself. Hell he would build it himself with his own hand if needed. His single hand and the four fingers he had left. And if he died before he even took the first step, then it was all for the better.

But he wouldn’t get what he wanted. He never did. He was an assassin, he didn’t belong to himself. He belonged to the Creed, the Order and the Mentor since the first day he was called a Novice. And since that day, his wants were of no consequences. All that mattered was what would be beneficial to the Order. 

And a cripple would not be of any use. He had been punished, discarded. Al-Mualim sent him to Jerusalem. He was nothing anymore but a useless tool without value. The Mentor unwilling to look at the broken man, he sent him away, never to see Masyaf, his home, again. 

He wasn’t killed nor even left to die of his wounds. No, he was healed and made Dai to be used as an example to all. He was nothing but a lesson for others. A lesson on the cost of failure. 

Altair would keep walking his golden road of greatness with barely a slap on the wrist. Malik would be left a broken man. 


End file.
